Powerless
by Is0lde
Summary: SLASH, Spangel Angelus' POV. He must get off on being treated like last month’s garbage, because he keeps coming back for another hit. And quite frankly, it suits me perfectly.


**Title:** Powerless  
**Rating:** R  
**Pairing: **Angelus/Spike (only this is before he earns that nickname.)  
**Disclaimer: **Our holy Lord God Joss Whedon owns the boys, I'm just toying with them.  
**Author's note:** The most, well, disturbing thing I've ever written. Spike-- no, _William_ gets totally run over by Angelus.

* * *

"Beautiful night tonight, isn't it?" 

He spins around swiftly, the look in his eyes desperate from the shock of the sudden sound of my voice, smashing the silence into little shards of nothingness, his expression no calmer when he realises it's me. I can't really blame him. Were I in his situation – an absolutely absurd notion, but still – I would fear me, too.

William. Sweet, once-innocent William, he's trying to uphold a sense of confidence. I could just laugh out loud, but I don't. Really, he's more than well met the standards required for me to respect him, but somehow I just can't stop thinking of him as less of a man than I am. Of course, he isn't as powerful, not by a long shot, but he hasn't even been a creature of the night for five years yet. I'm certain there will come a time when he can give me a run for my money, but this is not it.

And he's conformed to his new circumstances brilliantly. Drusilla has been a good tutor in her own, mad sort of way. The funny thing is, one minute he's got his integrity and he's so worked up about me acting condescending against him, but then the next, he's actually playing right into my hands.

William nods at me, not letting down his guard for a second, and leaning against the brick wall, his arms folded across his chest, he looks away from me decidedly.

"I knew I'd find you here." I take a few steps closer, and in seconds, I'm barely a metre away from him, and he's shifting nervously from foot to foot as though in preparation to run like hell if he has to. I'm almost compelled to smirk at the idea of him outrunning me.

"Yeah, well, you sneaked up on me. Didn't notice you prowling in the shadows." His voice is trembling slightly. I know he's feeling inferior. The thought of that is quite nice.

I look at him in mock surprise. "Why, William, you must've _known_ I'd find you here. You are nothing but predictable, my friend. And so the question becomes, have you been waiting for me?"

He is quick to shake his head, a bit too quick to be convincing. As he realises that, his pale complexion turns a rose-like red. He looks so insecure when he's blushing like that; it's almost revolting. "I haven't. I haven't. I was just enjoying some alone time, 's all."

Without a second's thought, I move up to him, and we're so close now that if he'd still breathed, I would've felt his breath on my face. He's cornered and he knows it – my hands pretty much lock him in place as I grab him by his upper arms. He writhes feebly, like that will do him any good whatsoever.

"You can keep on pretending like you didn't come here of your own free will if you like, William. I don't mind. It doesn't disturb me that you won't admit to the obvious."

He doesn't ask me what I mean by that, and it's just because he knows perfectly fine already just what I mean. This isn't the first time I've found him like this, all alone in the moonlit night, in the shadows of a deserted alley. And every time, it's the same routine, the same little stupid faces he makes when he knows I'm the one who's got the control and the power.

Without further ado, and because I'm more than a little impatient this evening, I lean forward and kiss him, his head being pressed against the wall and probably hurting. He tries to wriggle free, tilting and turning his head to escape me, but it's of no use, and he knows it. It's just a part of the show. Our show. The one he maintains with such perfect follow-through and timing.

An almost inaudible, whimpering protest, nearly entirely quelled by my tongue down his throat: "Stop, don't, please."

And I can't help but laugh, he's so pathetic. I chuckle, and my amusement makes him fight even harder to free himself of my grip, but I feel he's still holding back on me. Of course he is, he always is. That's why I can safely let go of his left arm, pressing him against the wall mercilessly as I let my right hand advance up his torso and to his neck, around which I close it in a tight grip; not too tight, but certainly discomfortingly so. My thumb on his Adam's-apple, I can feel him swallow hard.

"You're such a walking contradiction," I murmur, the rapid downward movement of my hand ripping open his far too expensive shirt. My nails, I've let them grow for one purpose only, and just below his right collarbone, I make a small incision using my index finger nail, the edge of it so sharp it cuts through skin like a knife. My tongue licking the laceration, he shudders momentarily, and I make a mental note to myself to do that to him the next time, too.

"Let go of me," he hisses, the look in his eyes wild for some reason or another.

I meet his gaze with a superior smirk on my lips. "Shut your mouth, William. Don't fight me, it will do you no good. You know that."

The frightened look on his face, only visible momentarily before he comes to his senses and tries to look cocky and stern again, it makes me profoundly excited.

I know William's torn between his two inferences; he wants this, he doesn't want this. I know this because I've figured him out; it wasn't too hard. William isn't complicated, in fact, he is quite simple, and he has a hard time concealing his emotions.

The choice must be a lot to bear. Either he'll successfully make a decision soon, or he'll go mad from the pressure – either way, it means at least a few more months of fun for me. It's entertaining as long as it lasts. Very entertaining. But I know it can't be forever. It isn't meant to be, either. What is exciting about it is just that it _is_ temporary. Short but sweet.

Well, perhaps not so sweet for him. Not always.

Right now, his senses, the ones he's so desperately fighting, trying so hard to deny, they're making him gasp and I can tell he's getting pleasure out of what I'm doing to him. My free hand has begun working at his belt and it doesn't take long before I can discard it, dropping it to the ground.

"See?" I whisper, my mouth close to his ear. "See how I make you crumble. You're forceless, William. And you're mine for as long as I tell you."

If Darla knew about these little adventures of mine, she would most definitely rip me open. I know her so well, I can almost picture the look on her face were I to reveal my dirty little secret to her. Darla holds no surprises for me anymore. I've had her and she's had me for so long, I can scarcely remember anything else. Not that I've been entirely monogamous in the past – of course, there have been preys that I've taken more pleasure out of than usual, but they have never been intriguing the way William is to me.

I will grow tired of him too eventually, but that doesn't matter. Right now, he's surrendered his integrity just to get to feel me touch him like this.

It's not as though I planned for this to happen. It was just… inevitable, I guess, the undeniable attraction between us. I felt it. He felt it. Now we're feeling it together, and it's just as simple as that.

His shirt ripped open, his trousers ready to drop at any second without their belt, I grin at the way he keeps licking his lips as nervously. I'm not gentle. I'm not kind. I'm not in any way considerate, and he knows that. He must get off on being treated like last month's garbage, because he keeps coming back for another hit. And quite frankly, it suits me perfectly. I don't waste time on satisfying _him_ and _his_ needs if I don't feel like it. Sometimes he's had to deal with what I imagine some people would call brutal torture, and things I imagine feel like going through hell to him, sometimes I even stay a bit after. But despite my desire and impatience a night like this, I take the time to toy with him a little – but that's all he gets.

"Don't you just _love_ these little rendezvous of ours?" I ask him amusedly, the touch of my hand through the fabric of his trousers rendering him incapable of retort. He mouths something offensive, yet presses himself against me, urging for closeness, skin to skin.

William tosses and turns between me and the wall, his hands on my shoulders cramping around them as I bite his neck, two little puncture marks appearing. The tiny amount of blood gushing from the wounds I lick up delightfully with my tongue, thereafter letting it trail up to his mouth where I kiss him so brutally that his protests are efficiently muffled.

His trust in me is touching. Like I couldn't drain him in a second if I wanted to. But then again, perhaps that does it for him. Being that close to instant death when really, he's been dead for years.

My actions create the ambivalence in him that I enjoy so much – his mind and spirit refusing, his body welcoming me, however reluctantly. And I know how much his irresolute behaviour plagues him, how much it always makes him hate himself afterwards, when I leave him in whatever alley we've made our sanctuary, leave him naked and exposed and, foremost, used. Had I been another person, I might just have pitied him.

But I'm _not_ another person, and the self-loathing I induce just makes it so much more fun.

My hands, they spin him around so quickly he doesn't even have the faintest chance of hindering me, and my hand closes again around his left upper arm, where I can feel his muscles tensing beneath his shirt. It takes mere seconds before his trousers drop almost without effort. He's reaching back with his right hand trying to grasp me, I don't know why, but I evade him easily and press him harder up against the wall, noting he's already spread his legs for me to take advantage of him.

The inconclusive signals he's giving off, I can sense he fears me, and it entices me. I open my own belt with my free hand and the last piece holding me from taking him, the last sheer piece of cloth departing us, is discarded.

As I push into him, a quiet moan escapes him, not meant for my ears, that much I am sure of – he wouldn't want to appear weak to me or to anyone else for that matter. I just know his eyes are closed tight, tight, as though he is under the vain assumption that it will make me stop, this mask of torment he's undoubtedly wearing.

"You're hurting me," he manages, trembling. "Angelus, you're hurting me."

"That's the idea."

The pain, the searing agony he's experiencing, I can trace it through his entire being, and it feeds my desire like a fuel; hurt is such an aphrodisiac. And I thrust into him anew, I'm inside of him, and he's shaking so violently as I thrust, if I hadn't known better I'd think I was breaking him.

And the best thing about this isn't the pleasure of the act itself. William is sweet, he's young, but it isn't his body that provides the greatest delight for me. It's that I'm in control every step of the way, and he's come to me willingly – such is the power I have over him, and if he protests, if he should ever call this rape or deny his active participation, my statement that he chose this himself wouldn't be a lie.

In time I'm sure he'll be the one taking the initiatives; as his powers grow, as he becomes older and wiser, he will be able to discern what he truly wants, and he will take it, just as I have taken him.

But until then, I'm content with him fooling himself into believing that this isn't exactly what he wants.

One time during he loses his emotional control; through gritted teeth, a cry surfaces, as he cannot ignore the pain any longer. It's a pure provocation – it only arouses me further, instead of making me draw back like it might have had I been his lover, with emphasis on 'love'. Surely he knows it doesn't make any difference if he screams or if he doesn't, not regarding if I'll let him go or not. It's probably just his incapability to restrain himself, to govern over his vocal cords.

With a final, brutal plunge into him, I end it; relief floods my insides and it's all over, and when I pull myself out of him he falls to the ground, naked, pitiful. As I put the clothes I've shed back on again, I look down on him. Vampires don't breathe and yet he's panting, like he's been running a race or something, all washed out. His eyes are reduced to half-open slits and when he looks back up at me, I can't decide whether he looks reproachful or just tired.

"Pull yourself together, William," I say, smirking at him. "Or some poor unfortunate's going to trip over you lying there."

The hate in his eyes is so burning that had he been more authoritative, I might well have regretted my sly remark. As it is now, though, I don't. I don't care the least.

This has never been about _him_ having a good time; it's always been about me.

He doesn't answer my final comment, just follows my advice and gets up on his feet, still trembling visibly, pulling his clothes on again. I turn my back on him and walk away. Waiting for him and accompanying him back to the abandoned old house where we're both residing at the moment with Darla and his beloved Drusilla wouldn't have been an option even if I'd been a tad bit sensitive and caring about his feelings. He can make his way back on his own.

It isn't as though he doesn't want this, deep inside. And I'm certain he won't refuse me even when he's had more time to think this through, and when he's built himself a strong confidence. I won't stop taking what belongs to me, and as long as he's inferior, he doesn't have a say in the matter. And I'll continue 'til he's bleeding all over, 'til he can't stand up afterwards, 'til he against better judgement screams: No more!

And if or when he does, I'll rip out his slippery wet blissful tongue and keep up what I'm doing.

It's all about the power, and he is still powerless against me.


End file.
